


le plus ça change (or, wherein Q is surprisingly competent and james is hideously jealous)

by landfill_lady, oldbooksandnutella



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omegaverse, alpha!Bond, omega!Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:18:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landfill_lady/pseuds/landfill_lady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldbooksandnutella/pseuds/oldbooksandnutella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is not a field agent, James is not jealous, and M is not scheming anything. Except for when they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> installation one in my omegaverse Skyfall au. as of right now, i'm operating with no beta or britpicker, and rl is kind of kicking my ass, so expect updates sporadically.  
> this is my first fic in the 00q fandom (and in general!) so concrit and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> obligatory disclaimer: if i owned these characters they would remain largely the same, but gayer and in love. and if i made money off of this-- well, then i'd be making money.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James fumes, Q is multi-talented, and Tanner begins to suspect that M has some sort of secret agenda, here.

When James receives his brief he flips through it immediately, like the good agent he is. His cool blue eyes flicker over the pages, widening almost imperceptibly as they go, and slowly, his mouth settles into a firm line. Once he's done reading, James crumples the folder in one powerful hand and storms off, presumably to Q branch.

Behind Bond's retreating figure, Tanner sighs and looks at M. Really, he thinks, she should have known this wasn't going to go over well.

-

When James strides into Q branch, expression murderous, the interns and the rest of Q's underpaid nerds take one look at him and make the collective decision to flee for their lives. The room is left empty aside from the 00 and the quartermaster, who's typing industriously away at a somewhat scuffed but indubitably cutting-edge laptop he probably built himself. Q is wearing one of his godawful cardigans over a nondescript white button-down and rumpled trousers, lips pursed as he codes, and hunched over the table, he looks like he belongs in a Starbucks, not the underground home of Britain's foreign secret service. There's a tea stain on his collar, and taking in the view, James is hit once again by what a horrendous clusterfuck he is clutching in his hand.

Eventually, Q disconnects from his computer long enough to register James' presence. "Ah, 007," he says, voice clear and reedy. He doesn't turn to look at James, just keeps typing at the computer, but James supposes that's all he's going to get. "I was wondering when you'd be in. You've been briefed, then?" Q asks levelly, and James admires his balls until he remembers that he is well and truly pissed at Q right now. "Grudging admiration" is not on the menu today. Q is getting an outrage frittata with a side of cold what-the-fuck.

Instead of answering, he makes an impatient noise and paces over so he's face to face with the quartermaster, staring at him over his computer. The folder makes a satisfying smack as it hits the table.

"Q," he growls menacingly (and James Bond prides himself on being pretty fucking menacing when he needs to). "What the hell is this?"

"Your new mission, I would expect," Q says blandly, so succinct that James doesn't even get the juvenile satisfaction of cutting him off mid-sentence. He's still looking at his computer. James glowers.

"Would you care explain to me why my new mission appears to involve you posing as my bond mate and going into the field with me? What the hell are you and M trying to pull?"

Q takes a moment to adjust his glasses before answering, but he's looking at James now, which is an improvement. "M and I aren't trying to 'pull' anything, Bond. It's all rather straightforward, actually. Your target is a straight, promiscuous Alpha, and M's decided we need a honeypot." His voice is distinctly chilly.

"So let the bitch find someone else to do her dirty work!" James shouts. Q looks at him reprovingly, probably offended on M's behalf.

James knows for a fact that M, Tanner, and the quartermaster have honest-to-god regular tea parties, plus Eve when she's in town, which are really just occasions to gossip horribly about James and complain about the interns. Said teas are actually much more frightening than they have any right to be, considering the lot of harpies could take over the world in twenty minutes flat if they set their minds to it. They put the fear of God into the interns, at any rate. James maintains stalwartly that he is too alpha masculine to feel puny emotions like fear. Still, even he is liable to feel a bit leery when the chamomile comes out.

Once it seems clear that James isn't going to apologize for the insult, Q turns back to his computer and resumes typing. James feels his jaw tighten as Q evades direct eye contact, his brown eyes flickering over lines of code even as he starts to speak. "You know as well as I do that none of MI6's current field operatives are Omegas, much less Omegas who are qualified to work with you on a mission of this importance. This was simply the most effective solution."

"Effective my arse, you'll get yourself killed!" James bursts out, indignant, and suddenly Q's eyes are back on his.

"Setting aside whatever you think of my capabilities, 007," he says, voice deadly calm, "the fact remains that as quartermaster I have passed field training, including anti-interrog, am more than qualified to handle my own equipment. I am also an unbonded Omega. So unless you'd like a spur-of-the-moment sex change, I suggest you begin your preparations. Now if you don't mind, I have actual work to be doing," he says, lifting one hand briefly from the keyboard to gesture down at it. "My job isn't just babying double-ohs, incredible as that may seem." There's a bite to his voice, though his face remains neutral. Q sounds hurt, James thinks. He sounds actually injured by the thought of Bond underestimating his worth, which is absolutely not the problem that James is having right now. Quite the opposite, in fact.

James doesn't know how tell Q that he's magnificent. He doesn't know how to say that Q is the most intelligent person James has ever met, regardless of age or sex. James doesn't know how to tell Q that he's one of the only people James trusts implicitly, even though he's been known to cause traffic jams that stretch all across London when hung over. He doesn't know how to tell Q how he makes James feel, with his bright eyes and permanent bedhead and ridiculous retro glasses. Things James hasn't felt since Vesper, and if that doesn't scare the shite out of James, he doesn't know what would.

James just doesn't have the words. But even if he did, James thinks dismally, what difference would it make, really? James is just another agent past his prime; a mess of scars and subpar psych evals, alcohol dependency and various other secret-agent clichés. All he knows is killing, and half the friends he has are dead. Q is one of MI6's bright young things, fresh-faced and clear eyed and brilliant. He has a whole life ahead of him, a life that James has no business in.

James could say any of these things right now, staring at Q over his stupid laptop. Instead he clenches his jaw, decides to rip the bandage off in one go, and asks, "And how the fuck are we supposed to pass ourselves off as bonded, anyways?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond is not whipped. Yeah, and screw you, Q branch.  
> (Most of this chapter is a flashback. I know, I know.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for how long it took me to get this chapter up, rl has been kicking my ass (and it's looking like it will continue to, which is why I've redacted my britpicker/beta request for the time being. to everyone who responded: thank you so much, you're all lovely people). that said, thanks so much to everyone who's stuck with this story regardless of my timing issues! i love you all like silva loves all things creepy.  
> EDIT: rl still ass-kicking, but i'm soldiering on. i promise eventually there will be heaps more plot, and possibly porn (who am I kidding, there will totally be porn. arden, prepare to shield your eyes).

James takes a moment to rest outside Q branch and regain his breath before storming off, properly this time. It rather ruins the effect, but there's not much to be done for it. James is growing older, and his last mission only ended a fortnight ago. He's still not yet fully recovered. James is fit for the mission, of course: he always is. Still, his body twinges unpleasantly when he moves and he’s still feeling the effects of the bullet to the thigh he took in Singapore.

James remembers the shot; the blast of a gun in a gloved hand, the way the bullet burned going in ( _it hurt. It always hurts, even after all this time_ ). He remembers Q’s sharp intake of breath over his earpiece, the sound of long fingers hitting computer keys, whip-quick and far too loud. “James-” Q had said, voice shocky and far lower than usual. James, not "Bond" or "007", even though Q only ever calls James by surname or number, even when he's off-duty. James had filed that information away to think about sometime he wasn’t caught in a gunfight with two Algerian drug barons, told Q to buck up and make himself some Earl Grey, and resumed the chase, grinding his teeth as he ran. And then carefully and systematically not thought about it, because there is a time and place for personal attachements when you're a double-oh and that time and place are _never_ and _nowhere_.

And that had been the end of that, really. James had shot some people, got shot by some people, and retrieved some sensitive MI6 property, as per his usual. After he'd been to medical (James _hated_ medical, but when one had cracked ribs and bullet wounds, there wasn't much else to be done), James had limped down to Q branch, as had been his tradition ever since Skyfall and the start of the odd friendship, or "mutual schoolboy crush", as M was prone to say, he'd developed with his new Quartermaster. When he'd got there, Eve had been waiting outside.

Eve's eyes had been narrowed, and her shooting hand was inches from where James knew she kept her gun hidden.

"Moneypenny," he'd said, nodding amicably to cover his unease. Her eye was twitching.

"What've you done to Q?" she'd said, dispensing with introductions, and that was when James felt fear. No, James is still too suave and masculine to feel fear, it was more like - _well-informed unease_. Eve is fiercely protective of the baby-faced Quartermaster. Most of MI6 thinks that Q is her omega from the way they act, but James knows for a fact that Eve considers herself Q's elder sister, and Q generally has his nose too deep in code to put up much of a fight. Usually, though, James has more of an idea of what he's done to earn Eve's wrath, so he'd just said, "Nothing more than the usual," hand reaching casually towards the small of his back.

On Eve's steely look, he elaborated, "Shot in the thigh again. Why?" Grasping at straws, really, because he was _James fucking Bond_ , of course he'd been shot on a mission. But it seemed to be the right answer, as Eve's eyes widened in sudden comprehension and she smiled the bloodthirsty smile of someone about to witness a hanging.

"You'll see when you get inside," and with that, Eve had stepped away from her bouncer position. When James seemed reluctant to move, she motioned him inside, smile still firmly in place. As he limped in, it was with the air of a death-row convict, and as Eve watched his entry from behind, he spared some uncharitable thoughts about bloodthirsty harpies.

All in all, Q hunched over his laptop was a bit of an anticlimax. That was, until the first minute passed. After that, it was just bloody unnatural. Q is the most talkative man (boy, really, James still thinks privately) at MI6; any time longer than thirty seconds without some clever quip from him is almost unheard of. And yet his tight-lipped silence persisted, his eyes fixed on his screen. Had James been anyone else, he would have made some sort of quip about his "spidey-sense" tingling. Since he was himself, he simply stood, ramrod-straight, and waited.

After another six minutes, James gave up.

When loud and obvious throat-clearing garnered no response, he grit out, "Q."

"Double-oh seven. Leave whatever's left of your gear on the table, please."

So James had laid out the battered remains of Q branch's gadgets on the table, ignoring Q's minions' knowing glances and mumbles "whipped"s. When even the sorry state of his Walther went unmentioned, he knew that something was seriously wrong. But after another minute spent standing silently in front of the Quartermaster, it was evident that no more was forthcoming.

Well, James Bond, double-oh, badass extroardinaire, has better things to do than wait for some omega to deign to speak to him; even if said omega is more adorable than he has any right to be, and too intelligent by half, and had a smile that lit up his whole face when someone left a mug of Earl Grey on his desk. He left.

Ever since that disquieting not-quite-argument, Q has maintained an icy silence towards James, who still has no bloody idea _why_. If Q is taking this blasted mission as some sort of messed-up vengeance, James is going to punch someone in the throat. 

But James has better things to do right now than fixate like some twelve-year-old girl.

He has people to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, a question: Where should I set this mission? I have a couple ideas, but I could use outside input. Nowhere is off limits, but I feel like using Singapore twice in one story might be a bit tacky.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, bitches.

_Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap._  

Bond closes his eyes and tries to breathe deeply as Q taps his scuffed wingtips against the underside of his seat. They're at waiting for the 9:10 Eurostar to Paris, and Q is proving to be, as ever, shit at patience. His skinny fingers fly over the keys of the first cheap burner phone he could find, and he's hunching in his seat, lips pursed with concentration. It would be quite a sweet picture, actually, if the man could just stop  _tapping his bloody fucking foot._ James clenches his teeth, reminds himself that he is an internationally renowned secret agent and, therefore, better than this, and prays for their train to come.

They've been at St. Pancras since eight, when they pulled up in a MI6 taxi with two suitcases full of expensive clothes and assorted Q-branch gadgets. Bond has a gun, a radio, a microscopic spy cam _and_ a signal jammer disguised as a lighter this time; thank heaven for small mercies. And who knows what Q's got tucked away in his trim Burberry duffle. Spy goodies can only entertain one for so long, though, and Q has been going slowly stir-crazy in his seat for the past two hours. He's shifted from leafing through Proust, to picking his nails, to digging out and re-coding increasingly small and dubious pieces of technology from a series of pockets James didn't know you could fit in trousers that tight. 

And that right there is another thing about this mission that James could do without: Q's needlessly tight and well-tailored clothing. Alright, he knows Q is a honeypot, but even in his normal horrible jumpers and wrinkled black jeans, Q'd have had half the station drooling over him. As is, in brown wool trousers, black leather gloves, and an indecently tight white oxford, Q looks like any alpha's wet dream. James is even willing to bet he's had at least a few straight betas and omegas turning their heads. Every eye in the fucking terminal is fixed on Q right now, and James is having a lot of trouble restraining himself from acting as possessive as he'd like.  

There's the real problem with this mission, if James is willing to be brutally honest with himself (although he rarely ever is). He wants to jump Q's bones so bad it hurts, but Q hasn't even looked at him in the past hour and a half. He's still maintaining an icy silence in the wake of their altercation in Q branch, which is really going to be a problem if he doesn't turn out to be a very good actor very soon. He's acting like - like a spurned omega, which is only serving to drive home the point that he's not  _Bond's_ omega, not now and not ever.

James doesn't know what the hell M is trying to accomplish, casting him and Q as bond mates, but he hopes like hell she lives to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Ralph Fiennes as much as the next girl, but Judi Dench will always be M to me. Sidenote: more soon, but actually this time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collusion in the Chunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i would update this earlier, all i can say is... sorry.
> 
> come shout at me on oldbooksandnutella @ tumblr if you like... i'll try to be consistent on posting about updates, so please follow if interested! it'll also be a good gauge for me about how many people are actually interested in this fic :)
> 
> ta, -e

When their train finally comes shrieking into the station, James feels the kind of leaping joy that, previous to this morning, he has only associated with a clean kill and particularly good sex. Q, on the contrary, looks like a wet cat. James takes a moment to mentally berate the chronic fickleness of omegas, but he realizes that Q is probably just not looking forward to spending what could be weeks as his, albeit ersatz, omega. He considers being offended for a moment, but since he himself has the same feeling of mounting horror about being Q's alpha, it seems a silly thing to get angry over.

James pops another lozenge in his mouth from the tin in his pocket, and grimaces at the strong taste of lemon. They're hormone-correcting lozenges from the biological sector of Q branch, necessary to maintain the illusion that he's a bonded alpha, and utterly horrid. Q is taking heat suppressants, which do essentially the same thing by making him smell as though he's got a bun in the oven, but at least those don't smell like the citrus grower's tier of Hell. As he sucks thoughtfully on the lozenge, James pushes himself up from his chair, stretching, and winces at the aches in his aging muscles. He cranes his neck, swiveling his head back and forth to shake off his lingering stress headache.

The Quartermaster in question is still staring at his phone, tugging his lower lip out between his thumb and index finger, but unless James is imagining things, he looks slightly more relaxed than before, and his wingtipped feet are tapping the concrete less insistently. After another moment, he flips his phone shut, pushes it deep into his pocket, and hops to his feet, grimacing at what James assumes are hellish pins and needles.  

James makes an aborted motion towards picking up Q's bag, feeling obscurely that it's the right thing for him to do, but his pretend bondmate just huffs at him in annoyance before picking them up himself and hurrying towards the nearest train door. James follows close on his heels, lugging his plain black duffel with one twanging arm, although Q doesn't spare so much as a backwards glance for him as he disappears into the carriage. 

James sighs and steps back on the platform to catch his breath. No matter how hard the bio team worked on the lozenges in James' hand, they're not going to make a very convincing couple if Q can't even _look_ at him without grimacing. Not that it matters much, James reflects - he himself has never put much stock in undercover operations. Usually, he announces himself as soon as he's taken stock of the situation M has him put in; he's high-profile enough that most criminal masterminds worth their salt these days can probably spot him from a mile away, anyways. But Q had been insistent at the briefing, and Eve had glared at him, and so James had thought, _to hell with it_ , and accepted the fact that, for the first time in quite a while, he was actually going undercover.

James isn't even the main operative on this mission (no, Q is, and isn't  _that_ a frightening thought), so it shouldn't be that hard to keep his head down, stick to his new, fake personality. Let the genius do all the heavy lifting on this one. And speaking of the devil, Q is sticking his head back out of the train door with a sugar-sweet smile, which probably means he's spotted some kind of video surveillance on the train.

"Come on, Brian," he says enticingly, with a flash in his eye that promises a swift and painful death if James doesn't obey quickly. "If you don't hurry up, the train will leave without us." James checks his watch surreptitiously. It's only been a minute or two since Q got on the train, but he's right; almost all the other passengers are off the platform and onto the train now, and James and his suitcase are among the only people left in the vicinity. He rubs his forehead and picks up the suitcase, bad leg twinging at the effort, and shuffles towards the door. Q is standing in the doorway, watching him, and his mouth purses in a small moue of disapproval. As James gets closer, he turns around abruptly and stalks back down the train's corridor, not so much as offering to help with the suitcase (not that James was really expecting much, but still, even a token effort would have been nice). James heaves his suitcase onto the train by himself, and starts to follow Q down the train. As they go, his eyes slide almost unintentionally down to Q's sashaying hips, which are hopelessly enticing in their tight brown trousers.  

Q, glancing coolly back over one slim shoulder, catches him staring. Behind his glasses, his eyes widen in a flash of surprise before settling into an expression of studied coyness James has never seen on him before.

"Do try not to knot me in the aisle, dear," he purrs, before turning around and sashaying back to a pair of seats, above which his trim suitcase is already resting. Q sits down with a satisfied little sigh and another insinuating glance at James, and immediately pulls his phone back out of his pocket. Behind him, still in the aisle, James tries not to gape too obviously.

The language makes sense, from a purely rational standpoint: their mark has a well-documented weakness for omegas with dirty mouths. It's just so far off from the Q that James is used to that it throws him unacceptably off-guard, and it takes him another couple of seconds to gather his wits about him, stow his own suitcase, and sit down. For lack of anything better to do, once he's seated he pulls his own phone out of his pocket - not a burner like Q's, but the sleek mission phones all agents have been issued recently. It's millimetres thin, fingerprint-locked and packed with enough unnecessary features to make Steve Jobs wet his pants with envy. James himself is still getting used to it, to be honest. 

As he contemplates it, his phone vibrates startlingly. He's received a text from a contact plugged in as "♥ ♥ ♥ Babe ♥ ♥ ♥", which he assumes is Q. It says:  _Conductor slipped a bug on me during boarding. Audio; no visual. Act natural._

James furrows his brow and tries to think what "acting natural" means in the terms of his cover. "Brian" is supposed to be a pretty stereotypical alpha; sex-focused, snobbish,  a bit flashy with his cash. None of these should be a particular stretch for James, but somehow it just feels... wrong to do any of that to Q.

Especially when the train starts to move and the genius hunches in on himself, lips going white as he focuses further on his phone. James watches him, brow furrowing. Even for Q, this level of focused introversion is borderline concerning, especially at the start of an undercover mission.

He resolves to leave Q be for now - the man has enough stressors to look forward to in the coming days, after all - and settles back in his seat to wait for the train ride to end.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! i am not dead yet apparently?

Twenty minutes later, Q's behavior has well and truly passed through the borderline concerning phase and landed in "dangerously weird" territory. When James leans over to whisper a question in his ear, the genius flinches visibly before getting himself back under control, which doesn't exactly do wonders for the illusion of a loving omega and his bondmate.

"What the bloody hell is wrong-" James whispers; he almost forgets himself and adds  _Q?_ before he can remember the Quartermaster's ridiculous undercover identity. "Lionel?"

"It's nothing," Q says through gritted lips. 

James levels a stare at him.

"I'm... a bit claustrophobic."

James gapes. "Why didn't you tell me,"  _and the entirety of MI6_ "before I booked our tickets?"

"I didn't think it would matter," Q says tightly. His knuckles are white where he's gripping his phone. James vaguely remembers Moneypenny saying something about how the boy wonder didn't like planes, but he hadn't put much stock in it at the time. 

"Is that the kind of alpha you think I am?" James asks, frowning a bit. "I could have made... alternate arrangements, you know."

Q smiles, lips pressed tightly together. "I wanted to come with you. You're away so often, after all, and I know it's important to you." He sounds so quietly passionate, with just a hint of neediness, that James has to remind himself sternly that this is all an act before doing something drastic.

"I'll take you out for dinner once we get there," he promises instead, leaning closer to Q in the hopes that a live double-oh agent will register as more of an imminent threat than what is effectively a big metal box. "Somewhere classy, with plenty of fruity cocktails." James has no idea what Q likes to drink, aside from Earl Grey, but the thought of the Quartermaster sipping at a piña colada amuses him.

"You hardly need to wine and dine me any more, darling," Q says drily, looking a bit less peaky and more reluctantly amused by James' flirting.

"But I like to," James says, pitching his voice seductively low for the benefit of whoever's listening in right now.

Q blushes like a virgin, a delightful rosy tint that makes James wonder how far down it extends before abruptly curbing the thought. He's always had a penchant for sleeping with beautiful people, but fraternization with coworkers is always a bad idea, especially when that coworker designs all your weapons.

So instead of leaning in closer and doing something truly stupid, James puts a reassuring hand on Q's and leans back into his own seat. "Just 30 minutes more, dear."

Q laughs shakily. "Any chance they serve fruity cocktails in the dining car?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> for my omegaverse, I've drawn heavily on Green Carnation's set of omegaverse concepts, along with some of my own twists. various parts of this 'verse which may or may not prove integral to this fic:  
> 1\. Adhering to Green Carnation's 'verse logic, the biological differences between Alphas/Betas/Omegas are much more different than those between males/females. Consequently, the term "sex" generally refers to whether one is an Alpha/Beta/Omega, while "gender" refers to male/female. Terms and identifications have begun to expand along with various in-universe queer communities, but this classification system is still the most widely used.  
> 2\. Since same-gender Alpha/Omega bonds are common, the term "straight" in this 'verse refers to Alphas who are only attracted to Omegas, Omegas who are only attracted to Alphas, and Betas who are only attracted to other Betas. The majority of Alphas and Omegas are straight, although there are some gay, trisexual or otherwise queer Alphas and Omegas. It is more common for a Beta to be trisexual. Just as in real life, being gay (for Alphas and Omegas), trisexual, or otherwise queer is a social stigma, although popular attitudes are gradually becoming more liberal.  
> 3\. There are non-cissexual people in this 'verse, although the phrase generally refers to one's Alpha/Beta/Omega status and mannerisms rather than male/female and masculine/feminine. Sex reassignment surgery does happen, and many trans* Alphas/Betas/Omegas take hormones, but it's still a social stigma.


End file.
